


The God's Realm

by A soggy and nasty piece of bread (37h4n0l)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Necrophilia, Pining, and that sums it up pretty much, deva path is yet to be made, i guess that gives the idea, nagato goes way crazier regarding yahiko's death than necessary, there's corpsefucking and i'm not gonna dance around the issue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 04:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14096838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/A%20soggy%20and%20nasty%20piece%20of%20bread
Summary: He never would have had all of him, maybe that’s why he was so adamant now about having even just a part.[Sensitive themes/necrophilia, not a lighthearted fic]





	The God's Realm

**Author's Note:**

> I'm, uh, so fucking sorry for this, I have no idea what happens or what state of mind I'm in when I write this sort of shit. Probably just venting my persistent need for very fucked up things, let's be real. I just started thinking about it during my Naruto reread; the fact that Nagato had to just... take Yahiko's corpse and keep it there?? Until he made Tendo out of it?? So for probably weeks???? I feel like this fact is somewhat evading the fandom. Or maybe it's just me getting fixated on these details, and then my logical conclusion is that Nagato technically *could have* fucked the corpse, because what else would I be thinking about. I love yahinaga a lot and I once again apologize for doing this to them, but I had an opportunity.

The congealed blood stayed on his abdomen for more than a week.

 

Not that Nagato hadn’t  _ wanted _ to remove it or took any enjoyment out of looking at it, no, it was an excruciating sight. He lied there, still, on a metallic surface of the Amegakure tower’s hidden room, with a stabbing wound that entirely surpassed his body, darkened remnants around the edges. The rest of him was neatly cleansed, half-naked and orderly laid down, kept in shape by chakra - it ran out in a few hours and required the caster to come back with the same frequency, also significantly draining him. Everything but the wound looked  _ almost _ alive.

 

It’s just that Nagato hadn’t dared to touch it.

 

Everything about the plan had been sorted out neatly, almost to an unbelievable degree, when they came to Ame and the internal conflicts were dealt with so that they could settle in their current hideout - Konan and him. They set it up in quiet cooperation, not talking to each other all that much, fumbling with preservation machines, traps and transmission rods. Neither of them had ever been talkative. It had always been Yahiko, in the past, doing the blabbering. Now Nagato forced himself to divert his gaze from her and she must have been doing the same, but it was their way of mourning and they both understood that without words. Just like everything else, the other bodies hadn’t been hard to retrieve and there were now five of them hooked up to artificial alimentation in order to be usable. Five - in addition to Yahiko.

 

It was obvious, of course, to both of them that they couldn’t leave him on the battlefield. That was a consideration that started surfacing in their minds only after Konan was done weeping and Nagato was done standing in one place, in a block, almost drained of both chakra and life. Even when it started settling down within him, his limbs still moved autonomously without him being mentally present as they leapt from tree to tree, Konan’s paper jutsu carrying what Nagato had been terrified to lay a hand on at the moment. Maybe the small sheets covering the body were a safeguard, maybe they were an act of consideration towards both her companions.

 

They had planned to bury him, put him to rest in a peaceful and dignified manner, bring his death to completion so they could remember him as the valorous shinobi he had been.  _ That _ never came to fruition. It wasn’t a well-reasoned, conscious decision at all on Nagato’s part but more of an impulsive clinging to Yahiko’s body that he still couldn’t bring himself to touch and that he found impossible to separate from. And after a while Konan understood as well and let him be. She stopped going into the back room and asking about Yahiko altogether; gentle, sorrowful Konan with her sharp features and deep understanding of people she always managed to do  _ right _ and not in the frantic, exaggerated way Nagato did. He respected her profoundly. For caring about both of them and not forming an attachment to something that was, after all, just a physical vessel. Yet again, she had been more reasonable.

 

In the end, Yahiko wasn’t given a grave. He was there, under Nagato’s gaze, in the same position he had been for days. As long as he didn’t come into contact with him he could delude himself that his skin was even a tiny bit warmer than the rectangular iron protrusion he was sprawled out on. As long as he stepped farther he could pretend he didn’t smell like medical cleaning substances. As long as he didn’t listen closely he could ignore the silence that replaced his breathing. As long as he didn’t look he could have even imagined the wound not being there and Yahiko being alive and well. But Nagato was a shinobi and Rinnegan bearer as well as a sensitive person, therefore his perception of the world was enhanced hundredfold and impossible to rule out. He was dead by his hands and even the fact that Yahiko had done it willingly was irrelevant. Maybe if Nagato scraped hard enough under his own fingernails he would have found traces of the same blood that was still drying around the stabbing wound.

 

He had to stare outside the makeshift window for a few moments to fill his vision with rain-soaked Amegakure’s intricate buildings and rooftops. Look at something that wasn’t the corpse next to him. Distracting himself was proving pointless, and the more he tried the more his eyes travelled back to the other, at which point he was wondering if there was some mystical explanation or magnetism involved because the most tempting thing that came to his mind was reuniting his filthy, murderous hand with the wound. No matter how much he also  _ hated _ the idea. Nagato could have said it was a way of reliving the last moments he spent with Yahiko and it would have been partially true, but there was no denying he was curious as well - like a child who wanted to do something only because he knew he  _ shouldn’t have _ . Interestingly enough, he was never like that as a kid. That, too, was Yahiko. 

 

His fingers did tremble, though, as he closed the distance between them and his friend’s midsection. The contrast between their skintones was made less stark by the other man’s lack of blood circulation but Nagato was still somehow paler. Come to think of, he had always looked  _ less alive _ than Yahiko, sickly and physically weak, especially when they were still children and the other two had to scoop up his exerted, malnourished little form each time he passed out from dire circumstances. It got better later, when he had actual food to eat. Nagato grew stronger quickly, but the comfort he had felt back then never left. It made the current situation bitterly ironic - if someone had had to place a bet on who among the two boys would have lived longer, chances are their choice wouldn’t have coincided with reality. He wasn’t supposed to be the one alive, staring at the few things that remained of his companion in this world. Nagato would have rather had it the other way around.

 

A few things couldn’t be changed. Just like he couldn’t go back on the fact that his fingertips  _ did _ reach the edge of the wound, slowly smoothing over the crustiness of dry blood, and the act came way easier than he had anticipated. He moved from one end of the cut to the other on the underside, repeating the same gesture above in a silent apology for his actions and non-actions. Inexplicably, it alleviated his guilt somewhat. Nagato had to stop to just  _ look _ for a few seconds, carve those features into his mind and find the appropriate words to explain why he couldn’t let go of them and never would. He might have been unmoving and faded, with closed lids and a gaping injury on his abdomen, but it was still Yahiko, the same sympathetic, round face, his well-trained form and spiky, light ginger locks. Nagato was filled with affection just by this person existing or having existed at one point in time. No matter how much he had denied it, he  _ was _ something similar to a god.  _ Beautiful, perfect, beloved Yahiko _ . He caught himself unawarely having moved his palm upwards from the scar.

 

That was the moment he should have stopped himself. Gained some awareness of what he was doing and moved away. But Nagato had issues with self-restraint when his passion got the better of him, just like the swift and cruel butchery he made when someone  _ dared _ to hurt Yahiko, or the other time, after his death. Of slaughters, he would have made a billion more. Because of all this, he would wrong the whole world back for wronging  _ him _ , and  _ because of all this _ , he couldn’t keep his hand from roaming over  _ his  _ chest in that moment, even as he couldn’t feel the pulsations of a heart underneath. A decision was born within him then, because realistically, he knew they were running out of time and he would have had to insert the transmitters soon. Last chances were good motivators, especially for desperate people.

 

Where the rods, disguised as piercings, would have been was already established and Nagato made a quick inner account of it. Those were the places to remember, the ones he would have damaged. There would be a transmitter at the corner of each collarbone, so he touched the spot with caution, mapping it in the hopes that the sensation would linger long enough. He felt himself tense up and his breath quickening with the ideas and possibilities flooding his brain of the things he  _ shouldn’t _ but  _ could have _ done. Just like when he murdered people, his body was quicker than his inhibitions, and thus the artificially sour taste tinged his mouth before he could fully comprehend what it was. Of course, Yahiko didn’t move in reaction to the kiss placed on his chest. How would he have, after all. 

 

It went downhill from there, like it usually did with Nagato. Contemplative people, too, had their desires. He used to be hungry when he was small, many times,  _ so incredibly hungry _ he launched himself at his meals like a beast when he was sure he had the permission to eat them. Yahiko and Konan had laughed at him for it. Maybe there was something deranged about making a parallel between food and the dead body of the person he loved; he thought of it briefly as he licked all along Yahiko’s collarbone and sprinkled it with hasty, devoted kisses. The scenario itself, truthfully, was rather deranged. But Nagato didn’t care about the childish, malfunctioning morality of this world. Many things that should have seemed wrong, he discarded as details - like the fact that Konan could have walked in on this, that he wasn’t respecting the dead, that the other was probably in love with her and he should have accepted it and be happy for what they had or  _ used to have _ . He just couldn’t,  _ couldn’t _ care when he was trying to mitigate so much pain, the burden he had sworn to bear and that turned out to be too heavy for him. Or simply  _ heavier _ than whatever should have countered the temptation of the dull, exposed skin before him.

 

_ Six in each arm _ , he reminded himself. Nagato sat down on the surface, discarding his cloak and taking one of Yahiko’s wrists to lift it and bring it to his lips. The veins stood out way more than he remembered, their eerie blue showing through a now close to transparent skin, and he followed them with his kisses, leaning closer and closer as he held the limb with both hands. With a little imagination the shift of balance occurring from the body being moved looked a bit like Yahiko had flinched. He put the arm down - the same one that had held him so kindly long ago - when he got to the other’s shoulder, finding himself on the verge of obsession with any spot around his neck. Nagato wanted to leave hickeys,  _ badly _ . But he still had enough of a semblance of sanity not to damage the body. Absentmindedly, he let himself caress Yahiko’s sides while intent on exploring every square millimeter of skin close to his jaw and also noticed he was growing way too accustomed to the cocktail of preservation liquids and disinfectants. 

 

With his face, he hesitated a little. Kissing him on the lips seemed like the next step in desecration comparing to what he had done so far, because of the intimacy, the  _ emotions _ behind it. Nagato wasn’t sure whether the uncontrollable, mind-wrecking love he had felt the few times they had been physically affectionate to each other in the past was reciprocated on his friend’s part; it probably wasn’t. Whatever interest Yahiko had in someone, it was surely directed towards Konan, and now it was too late to even try and get noticed by him the way Nagato wanted. He never would have had all of him, maybe that’s why he was so adamant now about having  _ even just a part _ . So he kissed him without giving it much mind how alarmingly chapped and dry Yahiko’s mouth was, mostly because something like this couldn’t be done if one cared about feedback. Nagato wasn’t even worthy of the latter and he knew. 

 

While still brushing over his torso, he also ran his fingers through his hair which was way too soft for both a shinobi and a dead person.  _ The chin. The sides of the nose. Both ears from lobe to upper shell.  _ He kissed all the target locations for transmitters urgently, and all of the sudden so much nostalgia came back to Nagato he felt the physical ache in his chest - all those shapes, the particulars he had tried to keep safe with his own life and still failed. It was a secret to neither Konan nor himself how he felt about this, that he  _ knew _ it was his fault, every bad thing that happened to Yahiko was somehow connected to him either directly or indirectly, and that he should have kept away from Nagato forever, gone somewhere safe, never learn ninjutsu or found the Akatsuki, none of the things that led them down this path. If it weren’t for the droplets on the other’s face he wouldn’t have even noticed he had started crying.

 

“See,” Nagato said quietly, the noise of the rain outside making his words stand out less, “I never lost this habit. I wish I had learned from you.”

 

He proceeded to wipe away the tears; first from his own eyes, then from Yahiko’s discoloured cheeks. The pressure within him wasn’t loosening all the while, and the more he looked at his friend’s face, the more it grew to the point of becoming unbearable. It was hard to define what it was, whether it was dissatisfaction, desire, pain or just a homogenous flurry of strong emotions that made Nagato’s face grow stiff and muscles tense up. 

 

“Yahiko” he breathed out with a tone uncannily serious and even more silent. “You called me a god, but you know I think the same of you.” He lowered himself to cup his face gently. “I wonder… Is there any chance you can see and hear me now?” Nagato paused, reluctant to push the words past his throat. “Do you know how much I love you? Yahiko,...  _ Yahiko _ …”

 

It was still so much easier to talk like that when there was no way for the other to reject or hate him. No, all he could do in his current position was to take in all of the other’s adoration and his fingers grazing Yahiko’s still diaphragm, his heart almost beating frantically enough for both of them as he trailed lower and lower and  _ lower _ . Nagato wanted to believe it wasn’t him who curled a finger in the hem of his pants and underwear to pull them off - that it was either someone else operating within his body or he was going out of his mind like the Rinnegan made him do when he was upset. For the first time, he loathed being conscious and present. Mainly because he still felt the need to act upon such terrible thoughts, because he was aching so much to touch Yahiko,  _ all of him _ , even if he was  _ dead _ and even if he might not have wanted him to if he weren’t. Nagato was too mesmerized, too  _ enthralled _ with his hip bones, the shape of his thighs, his cock - even though he wouldn’t have gotten hard - and felt blood rushing to his cheeks as the lightheadedness almost impeded him from completely getting rid of the garments, but only  _ almost _ . 

 

“There’s no other way for me to show you… You see, Yahiko, I’ve always loved you…” He rambled on in a frenzy, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he was already half hard and he didn’t have the strength to hold back now. “I’m sorry for being like this… This terrible… I said I’d protect you but I couldn’t,  _ Yahiko _ ,...”

 

Nagato had to brush off another tear from his eye, getting slightly annoyed with himself and trying to soothe the tension by repeating the other man’s name over and over while he walked over to the other side of the metallic block facing the body’s feet. He palpated his legs slightly, trembling from self-induced caution, and examined all of him once more. 

 

Yahiko had never looked vulnerable in his life. Not even when he  _ was _ , when things went wrong or when Jiraiya had left them and he cried - he just didn’t appear like that. Maybe that’s what helped Nagato form a sort of divine image of him, put him on a pedestal as the person who saved him and made him want to be strong and use an ability he hated. Konan had picked him up from the dirt the day he met them, but it was Yahiko who taught him to face forward and that one had to work hard to build a better reality for themselves. Along with him and his dream, the other thing Nagato wanted to protect was the way he saw him, full of so much passion and willingness to change the world. He really was a god to him - and when he had told him, his friend just shook his head and praised his strength instead.  _ You’ll be the one to make a change, Nagato, _ he had told him then,  _ you’re more suited to be called a god.  _ He didn’t understand what that meant. He was a weak person burdened with great power, nothing more nothing less; and yet Yahiko looked at him with  _ those eyes _ shining with so much admiration, he called him reliable, inspiring and formidable. For once, he really had no idea what he was talking about. 

 

He spread Yahiko’s thighs with a bit more effort than it was outwardly apparent due to the muscles in them being completely lax. And only now that Nagato was slicking himself up and entering him in a trance did he look vulnerable,  _ for the first time _ . He embraced his friend’s dead body to the best of his abilities as he pushed his cock inside, desperately trying to disregard the coldness of it all and the thousands of reasons why he was doing something terrible. He grabbed onto Yahiko’s hips to lift him and sheathe himself completely, not daring to move for a few moments - as if it made any difference. It was either his own shock or some petty delusion he had about imagining doing this while the other was still alive, and he hated himself for it, he hated himself so much. Almost as much as he loved Yahiko. That was why he was doing this, after all, he reasoned as he leaned down to his face which had softly turned to the side, placing more kisses on his jaw.

 

“It’s because I love you so much” Nagato said out loud, and if he didn’t need his arms for support he would have wrapped them around him like a suffocating and overbearing envelope.

 

He was already filled with guilt to the brim the moment he started moving rhythmically, trying not to dig into the other man’s skin too strongly. Guilty of being aroused, of taking this much pleasure in defiling everything that remained of his friend and also in not receiving resistance. He knew he wouldn’t have had the hubris of even attempting such a thing, had Yahiko been aware of it - but now he couldn’t be, and that body that Nagato worshipped to the point of fanaticism was exposed and spread out before him. It was all very miserable but also a  _ last chance _ . 

 

“Yahiko, you…” He panted roughly, lids lowering over the concentric circles of his Rinnegan, “You feel so good… I’ll make sure to protect your body at least…”

 

How ironic it was, how cruel and abhorrent that Nagato was thrusting into him completely uncontrolled and intoxicated as he said all of that, but an ugly and selfish part of him - the same one that secretly basked in Yahiko’s praise and wanted to show off to him at every given chance - took joy in it. He pictured how this could have gone if it had been done  _ right _ , how he would have showered the other with all the tenderness and care he kept inside, made love to him properly. Maybe the image got close to what he was doing now, at least in appearance, no matter how far it was from it on a moral level. The Yahiko in his mind was happy with him and accepted him openly, something so unrealistic it was shameful to even fantasize about it. But Nagato was far gone at that point, captivated with the vision and the sensations associated with his cock entering the other’s body repeatedly. 

 

Yahiko was  _ his _ at least now and he wouldn’t have given him to anyone else; not the world, not the Akatsuki, not even Konan. He would have taken good care of him in the faint hope that wherever his consciousness was in this moment, he would have felt at least a bit of the corrosive love Nagato had for him, the only love he was capable of anymore. It was appeasing to see Yahiko budge underneath him with his every movement, appeasing that his passive, hollow face shifted a little and that he had to use force to prop him up, that he finally felt like he was proving himself and proving  _ what he felt for him _ , no matter how twisted the means were. 

 

He found himself kissing every part of Yahiko he could reach as he got closer to the edge, no matter the discomfort of the position, and when he tasted something salty and pungent he was unsure whether it was the blood from around the scar or his own tears which had started streaming down his face again.

 

“Why did you have to die…?” Nagato asked, not expecting an answer, barely able to discern sorrow and pleasure anymore. He came as he pressed his lips against Yahiko’s again, silencing his own imminent depraved noises but gripping the other’s sides tensely.

 

And like a gruesome visual elegy, Yahiko lied there, slick with sweat and semen that weren’t his own, just as pale and uncharacteristically fragile - just as  _ dead _ as before. His posture was slightly more disheveled than it used to be but not any less still. The stabbing wound, on the other hand, had reopened; there was no pressure that would have made the blood spill out, but some of it seemed to have remained underneath his skin, showing through in a little, vivid red crack. For a few minutes there was nothing to do there but stare, frozen and bitterly, and they both remained there without making the slightest movement. The rain’s tapping resounded in the room like the noises of something crawling in the shadows, having more life of its own than either of the two people in there.

 

He looked better later, with the transmission rods that allowed him to move and the wound already fixed up with medical jutsu. It was odd to be in that body - maybe wanting to keep it integer had taught Nagato to stay safe definitively, for the sake of the vessel instead of himself. He saw the perturbation on Konan’s face when he first showed it to her but they got used to it pretty quickly, and it felt like being together with  _ him _ in some sick sense, to both of them. 

 

Maybe he got it, finally, Nagato thought to himself as he looked at his own -  _ Tendo’s _ \- palms while standing on the porch days from then. The wind blew a few lighter droplets of rain in his face, as well as against the slabs and tubes of Amegakure’s structures, all at his and his organization’s mercy.

 

Maybe he could call himself a god now. 


End file.
